


Secrets of a Songbird

by Chessie_Lynne



Category: Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco, The Academy Is..., Twenty One Pilots, Young Love (Band)
Genre: 1940s, AU, Alcohol Abuse, Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - 1940s, Angst, Gang Violence, Gun Violence, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Peterick, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prostitution, Romance, Ryden, Smut, World War II, brallon, domestic abuse, suicidal, warfare
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-18
Updated: 2016-03-07
Packaged: 2018-03-16 02:21:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3470789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chessie_Lynne/pseuds/Chessie_Lynne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1940's -- AU</p><p>Ryan Ross has given up his parents hopes and dreams of him becoming a surgeon, to pursue his real dream of becoming a big name in jazz music in San Francisco, California.<br/>Brendon Urie is a poor boy rural Nevada who lives a life full of lies that he hides from the family who loves him.<br/>Neither one of them expected to cross paths. Neither one of them expected the serenely tragic nightmare that would transcend time and history.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>See tags for triggers</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

** PREFACE **

_We buried the boys on a Thursday._

_On a morning with morose light filtering through the leaves of the aging willow._

_Spencer chose the spot for burial. Said it was sentimental and whatnot._

_With the breeze dancing at our sides, we held a shot of whiskey up high,_

_dumped the bottle over the graves,_

_and told the boys to keep God on his toes._

_Spencer crouched, propped the bottle against the headstone,_

_traced their names with his thumb._

_He was silent for a spell. I almost fell to my knees,_

_and crumbled under the weight of it all._

_Then his voice came,_

_quiet as a mouse._

'Be good, boys. See you soon.' 

 

 

****

  **I**

  **March 7th 1943**  
 **Sam's – San Francisco, California**

  ** _RYAN  
_****_“Leather typically screams ‘sex’. But on him? All I could think was... ‘Whoa’.”_**

Ryan dreamed of screaming crowds and women falling at his feet. The life he envisioned for himself was full of the glitz and the glamour that partnered with having your name in lights. The life he did lead, however, was drenched in whiskey and full of faceless strangers who barely tapped their toes to the sound of his voice. It wasn't for lack of trying, however. Thanks to the generosity of his mother and father, he was able to live comfortably in a small home close to the city’s epicentre of life. It was there, in the small home with a bedroom, a washroom, a teensy kitchenette, and a quaint living room that he practiced his vocality. His days were spent in the glow of the sunlight beneath the window in the living room with sheet music in hand. His nights, however, were spent beneath dim lighting, a thin veil of smoke hanging over the room, the putrid scent of cigars penetrating all other smells that came along with the atmosphere of a bar.

Ryan had performed here in the past. Of course, the past clientele seemed to have a much more upbeat vibe than that of tonight's crowd. He swirled his whiskey around in his glass with his eyes fixed up on the current performer, a kid from upstate he figured. He had talent, sure. That was a fact that Ryan couldn't argue. But what he lacked was _style_. Pizazz. Oomph. His suit looked downright awkward on him with the too-tight sleeves and the too-long slacks to match. His yellow and red polka-dotted tie seemed to be strangling him, his face burning a deep shade of red while he sang into the microphone, his gaze pointed straight ahead. _That has_ got _to change_. Ryan noted mentally, drawing the glass of whiskey towards his lips and taking a short sip. A sad but true fact, if you wanted to make it in this business, you have to have the look, not just the voice. Ryan thanked his stars that he had both.

A thin haze of cigarette smoke hung low in the room, creating an ambiance in the dim lighting that screamed out, begging for promiscuity. Out of the corner of his eye, Ryan caught glimpses of women tethered to their men listening intently to every word they said, regardless if it encompassed sports or economics. A sigh escaped Ryan's lungs, his mind swimming with thoughts of settling down one day. Or at the very least, stop bothering women for anonymous sex only to leave them high and dry the following morning. The thought both repulsed and endeared him without ever allowing him to find a middle ground. However, as far as Ryan Ross was concerned, it wasn't anything a double shot of Four Roses couldn't fix, however.

The kid up on the stage belted out his final note, the band following suit. Around the bar, a handful of people clapped. A gentleman in the back threw forth an impolite heckle, but much to Ryan's surprise, the boy marched off the stage with not a sliver of dispiritedness evident anywhere in his demeanor. It was apparent that the kid had gall, which Ryan found himself admiring as he set his whiskey down upon the granite bartop and headed for the stage.  
"Good on you, kid." Ryan said authoritatively to the boy as he brushed past him.  
"Thanks," he said quietly. Ryan watched his long and bony fingers fumble with his tie. "hey, good luck out there. Tough crowd tonight."  
_You're wishing_ me _luck?_ Ryan thought, partially shocked at the kid's nerve. _He_ was opening for _Ryan Ross_.  
"Thanks for the heads up." Ryan balked. The atmosphere between the two men shifted considerably the moment the words left Ryan's lips, coated in venom, from amiable to hostile and the kid chewed nervously on his lip. Without another word, he cast his eyes downward and shuffled past Ryan, his shoulders slumping some with each step.

A pang of guilt rocked through Ryan's chest, but it was swiftly replaced with pre-show nerves when his name was called from center-stage by the stalky man who presumably owned the bar. Ryan flicked his eyes around, watching the man as his fingers extended towards him, beckoning him forth. The tips of his own fingers felt electrified as he stepped up the rickety wooden steps to the stage, the lights shining too-brightly into his eyes. He cast a half-hearted smile out into the crowd that he couldn't quite see, and sent up a silent prayer that he wouldn't get booed off the stage tonight.

The old oak boards creaked beneath his feet, and he felt the distinct pang of fear that always plagued him at the start of each show. He could pretend all he wanted that he was some seasoned professional who did this on a daily basis, but when push came to shove, Ryan was terrified of the limelight and all it had to offer. He wondered briefly if it were possible for him to be famous and not ever have to engage in a live performance, but quickly quashed those thoughts when he heard someone clear their throat in impatience at the back of the bar.

"Evening," Ryan said stiffly into the microphone, wincing as a beam of light bouncing off of the metal threatened to blind him. Behind him, he heard the band shift into place, and he threw his eyes over his shoulder to look straight at the drummer, Spencer, as if to ask if it was okay to proceed with the song. The completely affirming glow that emanated from Spencer's friendly grin was heartwarming to say the least. The feelings prickling Ryan's heart began to melt away almost instantly, allowing him to turn back towards the crowd.  
He counted himself in, his fingers poised and snapping in time. It was then that the band jumped into action, Spencer tapping out a rhythm that the rest of the band followed. Ryan grasped the base of the microphone with his free hand, the other one keeping himself in time with steady snaps.

“She's the smoke, she's dancin' fancy pirouettes. Swan diving off of the deep end  
Of my tragic cigarette.” Ryan sang, his voice low and smooth. The corners of his lips turned up into the faintest of smirks when he looked out to the crowd and saw a man seated at a round table near the front of the stage tapping his feet to the tune of the singular trumpet squawking, the Harmon Mute buzzing inside it.

Ryan felt the music in every aspect of his being. He felt it in the steady thrum of his heart, in the vibration beneath his feet, electrifying his entire body from the ground up, awakening his very soul it seemed. Music had always had this incredible effect on Ryan, right from the time he was a boy. It was Miss Daisy, Ryan's childhood maid, who brought music into his life.

Growing up in the most affluent neighbourhood in Phoenix, Arizona with two surgeons as parents, Miss Daisy more or less raised Ryan and his siblings. She was by no means a conventional maid who was silent, only speaking when spoken to, but rather one who refused to colour within the lines. Ryan fondly remembered mornings where he would wake up and hear the gramophone spinning downstairs with jazzy tunes unfamiliar to him. Curiously, he would creep down the steps in socked feet and striped pajamas and find Miss Daisy dancing around the dining room while she dusted. Ryan liked to remember times of his youth where he and Spencer would bang on pots and pans upon the wooden floor of his mother's kitchen until scolded by Miss Daisy. _"Child, you gon' wreck your mama's good pots."_ She'd say, hurrying to grab the pots off the floor and the spoons from Spencer's fingers. _"But come on outside, I'll show you boys what my mama and me used to do to make music."_ she would add with a grin as she slid the pots into the cabinets and the spoons into their rightful places in the drawers.  
She led the two boys outside into the backyard, ducking beneath the linens hung on the line and led them out to the woodshed. Spencer bent down and grabbed a long, thin twig fallen from the willow tree and began drawing in the dirt at the base of the tree while Miss Daisy disappeared into the shed, appearing a moment later with a small washboard and an old, rusted metal pale held in her thick arms.  
_"Look at that, you already ahead o'me, chile!"_ She laughed at Spencer, who was twirling the stick around his fingers when Miss Daisy spoke.  
Down she set the pale before Spencer, and the washboard before Ryan. _"There. Now y'all can play all the music you want without ever havin' to worry 'bout wreckin' your mama's pots. When I'm done takin' the laundry down, I'ma come back and teach you boys a song my grandmama taught me when I was just your height."_

Needless to say, Miss Daisy was about as influential as it got when it came to teachers. You would have expected it to be his mother and father, but they had always detested the arts, always blabbing about how it promoted rebellion and debauchery. As a child, Ryan was encouraged to learn about the human body, how to treat wounds and keep a calm stomach at the sight of blood. All tactics invented by his loving mother and father to more or less train him into carrying on the family torch of surgical practice. Or at the very least, doctoral. The only flaw in their plan was they did not anticipate their son ever having an issue with being persuaded to be someone he knew he was not on the inside. Try to mould him into the son they wanted all they may, but Ryan was always a bit of a rebel at heart. If he was told to go right, he dashed left. So naturally, when he first became queasy at the sight of open flesh and blood, he ran in the more...Artsy direction. Of course he always led his parents on to believe that he was their model son, that he was not going to turn out like his eldest sister who left home as soon as she could and became part of the hippie subculture. If only they knew. Thanks to Miss Daisy, with virtually no influence from his parents, Ryan now lived the life he felt he was born to lead. Well, half of it anyways.

Ryan smiled out into the crowd, his voice only improving in tone with each line he sung. It was then that he caught sight of intensely green eyes, lined with a thick wing. Dense eyelashes batted and fanned flirtatiously over her cheeks. She was the most vivacious creature Ryan had ever laid his eyes on, with her red dress in satin that hugged rounded hips and delicate curves, cut just below the knee, Rita Hayworth was called to mind when Ryan eyed her full body figure. She was hidden beneath the shadows at the hind of the bar and even still, his eyes lingered over her full lips, painted blood red to match her dress and dipped into a pout and it was then, while Ryan was envisioning the smudged lipstick stuck to his neck, that he knew he _had_ to have her.

Part way through Ryan's third song, he found himself coming to life under the heat of the lights. He moved and swayed with the music, flirting with the crowd by winking and smirking at the appropriate times, his eyes always drifting back to the nameless starlet at the back. To Ryan, anyways, with her hooded eyes never leaving him, she looked like she was already forming filthy thoughts of her own. _Just one more song,_ Ryan thought to himself, swivelling his hips around. _One more song, and then I'll talk to her._

As the music died down and Ryan sung his last note, he pushed his wavy locks off his forehead and left the microphone in the centre of the stage. The band behind him disbanded and allowed the bar to be filled with music from the record player behind the stage. "Nice one out there," The tall man behind the stand-up bass, Dan, said cheerfully, clapping Ryan on the shoulder. Ryan looked up at him with his pearly whites flashing in the dim lighting.  
"Thanks." He replied, shrugging Dan's lingering hand off his shoulder.  
"One of your best." Spencer confirmed cheerfully, following up behind Dan. Ryan shifted his eyes to his oldest friend and kept his smile beaming. Spencer had always been the most supportive person he'd ever known. He pushed him to his limits and fueled his drive, which was why Ryan was almost guilt ridden that he was about to leave Spencer hanging so he could charm a young lady into bed.

He nodded at Spencer and brushed past him, the girl at the back locked in his sights. In a few short strides, he was directly before her, his stomach turning with nerves.  
"Like the show?" He asked suavely, sidling up beside her, resting his elbow on the wooden beam attached to the wall. The woman's lips curled into a salacious grin, her dainty fingers drumming absently on the wood.  
"Sure did." She drawled, her eyes narrowing a little at him. God, she looked like she wanted to _devour_ him. Ryan didn't know what it was about women like this that turned him on. Maybe it was the danger. Maybe it could have been that Ryan could have been easily charmed into bed with a bat of the eyelashes and a flick of the hips regardless of gender.  
Maybe that was the one thing that set Ryan apart from his family. Not his interest in the arts, but rather his fluid sexuality.

Ryan remembered the first time he ever explored romantic elements with the same sex—not so conveniently while he was eye to eye with possible the most dazzling woman he'd seen in what he estimated to be months.

He remembered the way his lips felt, how soft they seemed— to be as soft as feathers. He recalled the boy being so sure of himself while he kissed him, how Ryan felt so apprehensive and shy, his heart slamming against his ribs, how he walked home that night with his head stuck in a dizzy sort of trance where he found himself thinking; _Aren't boys just marvellous?_

Then again, women had the same effect on him, but his interest in either sex fluctuated in favour of one or the other periodically. Some days, he wanted to feel the abrasiveness of a man, or the vastly different kind of romance they offered. And sometimes he would rather feel the softness of a woman, and it never mattered to him. The trick was keeping his attraction to men a secret, and so far he'd done a bang-up job.

"Did you like it enough to take a little walk with me?" Ryan asked, his eyes trailing slowly over the woman's exposed collarbone. She parted her lips to answer, but before the words had a chance to leave those _perfect_ lips, a man appeared behind her, tall and looming, his hand finding her waist.  
"This pretty boy givin' you any trouble, Liz?" The man asked, pulling his eyebrows together as he looked on at Ryan. Ryan, who wasn't a stickler for violence, found himself taking a step back, while still trying to maintain his position.  
"Nah, he's just curious." The woman, who Ryan pegged as 'Liz' replied patronizingly.  
"I oughta show him 'curious'." The man sassed. He looked to be a sleazy character, Ryan thought. His jaw looked like it hadn't seen a decent shave in a day or so, and the sweat gleaming on his temples and upper lip gave him an overall greased up appearance that made Ryan seriously want to question Liz's taste. The bad boy that existed within Ryan began fuming, balling up his fists and getting ready for the fight, and apparently that side of him was far more visible than Ryan had intended, because the man began rolling up the sleeves on his sweat-stained shirt.  
"You leave my 'Liz alone. Or we're gonna have an issue on our hands, bucko." The man growled, clenching and relaxing his fists at his sides. Ryan was almost amused at the amount of nerve the guy had, acting all tough and manly in front of his girl for really no reason at all. He cocked a brow up at the man, paying no mind to the fact that he was substantially larger than him, and if he did in fact advance on him, he would be flattened in a second.  
"Alright, guy. You win. But do the lady a favour and wash your hair sometime, hey?" Ryan bit, turning on his heel to walk away. No sooner had he swivelled one hundred and eighty degrees, did he feel a meaty hand clamp hard on his shoulder, yanking him backwards.  
"Ryland, don't!" Liz squeaked from behind Ryan, who was stumbling backwards with the force which he was being pulled back by.  
"Elizabeth, please!" Ryland grumbled, turning Ryan around with a single hand. Ryan felt his blood begin to boil under Ryland's animalistic stare. "You wanna take me on, buddy? Fine. Put your dukes up!" He barked in Ryan's face, thick sputum spraying from his lips as he spoke.  
"I don't want to take you on." Ryan answered coolly, ignoring the burn of the curious stares from the other patrons in the bar.  
"Then don't you be insultin' me in front of my woman," he hissed. "you asked for this, pretty boy."  
Ryan rolled his eyes. _Seriously?_ "I'm going to go over to that bar. I'm going to order a whiskey. And you're going to forget this happened, as am I." Ryan said slowly, almost condescendingly. Thankfully, this Ryland character was too dense to pick up on it. He heaved a sigh and unclenched his fists, and placed a hand on Elizabeth's waist. Ryan nearly cringed at the sight, but turned to leave instead. The last thing he needed tonight was an altercation.  
"Don't let it happen again. By the way? Show sucked." Ryland barked as Ryan took his first steps towards the bar.

Alright, _that_ one stung. He remembered earlier in the night when the kid from upstate marched offstage with his chin held high, and he suddenly wished he had that kind of confidence while the venomous words stung his heart. Ryan Ross was about as cocky as it could get, but when it came to his feelings, he was as fragile as china.  
He slid up onto the stool upholstered in burgundy leather and hung his head low, his hair falling forward. Was he _that_ bad? He was under the impression he'd done well tonight. He rehearsed all day with Spencer, and heard the round of applause loud and clear in his ears, but now he was second guessing everything he had worked for.

"Gimme a beer. And a shot of Four Roses for the performer." A voice cooed at the bartender. Ryan didn't recognize the voice, but when he looked up, he was shocked. The man who sat before him was unfamiliar, but beauty in every sense of the word. He had eyes the colour of the whiskey in the glass on the bar, and they twinkled even in the low lighting. His hair, which looked as black and as smooth as the feathers of a raven, was buzzed neatly on the sides of his skull, but remained long and wispy on top, which was completely different than anything Ryan had seen, and that on it's own was enticing. But perhaps-- and Ryan was noticing this to be a trend with his favourite facial features-- the most lovely thing about the man was his lips. They were _huge. Like individual pillows._ They curled into a smile when Ryan's eyes met his, and he found himself unable to peel his gaze away from him.  
"T-Thanks." Ryan spluttered, grasping the glass in his fingers and tossing it back. It burned as it slithered down his throat, however it wasn't a sting that Ryan wasn't used to. The sting that Ryan was not used to was the sting in his cheeks.  
"Sure thing." The man replied, curling his fingers around the neck of the amber bottle in front of him. His leather jacket squeaked silently as he moved, and Ryan found himself looking curiously at the way the thing hugged his biceps. "Listen," the handsome stranger began, his eyes transfixed on the bottle, picking at the label absently with his thumbnail. "don't listen to that punk, alright? Your show? Amazing."  
Ryan felt his heart skip then and there. Sure, he'd been excessively complimented on in the past but it had always been by single women looking for relationships in the wrong places. Never by attractive men in letter jackets at the bar. Never.

"Thanks...I'm Ryan." Ryan said slowly, smiling shyly.  
"I know." The man replied, taking another hearty swig from his bottle with the peeled label. When he set the emptied bottle down on the countertop, he slid it forward, an equally shy smirk playing at his lips. Then, before Ryan had a chance to correct himself for staring, he reached into the pocket of his jacket, fishing around for something, eventually extracting a flap of leather. A few crumpled singles came out of his wallet from between his fingers, and he slipped off the stool, heading for the door.  
"Wait." Ryan said. He was somewhat shocked, desperate for him to stay. He'd only just encountered this man, but he yearned for more. More of everything. More skin, more smiles, his _name_.

The man didn't turn around at the sound of Ryan's voice. Instead, he kept walking, his hands tucked deep into his pockets as he pushed towards the door. Ryan was panicking, realizing that the odds of him ever seeing that gorgeous stranger again were beyond slim. He couldn't let him slip between his fingers, and it was happening faster than he thought. He jumped off the seat, and started after him.

"Hey!" Ryan called down the sidewalk, watching the man start to disappear into the night. The air was chilly, but it sure felt a lot warmer with _him_ in the vicinity.

Much to Ryan's surprise, he twirled around, a perfectly sculpted eyebrow poised in question.

"I didn't catch your name." Ryan panted, flashing him a coy smile. The boy looked up at the sky, the very stars dancing in his eyes.

"It's a secret."

"A secret?"

The boy nodded in confirmation, looking just beyond Ryan's shoulder at the handful of men ambling out of the bar. Ryan heard them scuffling, talking about their wives at home with vulgarity in their words, and when Ryan turned to look, he heard the man before him shuffle away. He snapped his gaze back in his direction and dejectedly called out one last time; "Hey!"

The boy stopped again, this time twenty feet ahead.  
"I'll see you around!" He called back, this time clicking his tongue and tossing a wink at Ryan.  
Ryan stood there, the night air grabbing hold of him and keeping him frozen in place while he watched the mystery man disappear into the shadows ahead. He didn't know his name, but he wanted to. But for now, Ryan was content with having a 'secret' in place of a name. _Yeah,_ he thought. _My little secret._


	2. Chapter 2

**II**   
**March 7th, 1943**   
**The Rose’s Thorn – San Francisco, California**   
****  
BRENDON   
_“It was strange, y’know? I thought that I’d be able to close my eyes and carry on. But I couldn’t. His voice wouldn’t leave me no matter how hard I tried.”_ ****  
  


When Brendon pictured living on his own, it sure as hell didn’t include seemingly endless days spent draped in satin and lace or coated with French perfume. It had, however, included an apartment of his own, with freshly painted walls and a nice couch. Maybe he’d have gotten a dog, or something. Maybe a bird. Truthfully, anything could have been better than living in a cement box.

Calling this place a home was a stretch. When you think of home, what do you think of? Maybe you call to mind images of a house with a fence or a mother tightly wound into a striped apron, baking in the kitchen. A place where the only satin that existed was upon the soft petals of the flowers in the beds that lined the front of the house. Home looked like a street where you used to play hockey with sticks crafted by your father. At the very least, home had a warm bed, not some dingy second or third hand couch. Brendon could think of all of the things that a home looked like. Visualizing the opposite was not something of a laborious task, and this was because it was every day that he would float past the bar and the stage, down a dingy hallway where a singular light flickered at the ceiling and he would find ‘home’. Home was a cold room in the basement of a cabaret. Home was a vanity dotted with bulbs and lined with makeup palettes and ornate bottles of perfume. Home was a worn leather couch that stank of mildew. Home was devoid of any life aside from the pained dancer who spent cold nights curled upon the couch. 

Brendon had been given the night off after two long weeks of working the stage. He’d been made up like a painted doll, and wondered as he peered into the mirror if he would ever be able to remove the rosy hue left behind by the blush on his cheeks. His jacket pulled tight over his shoulders, his elbow propped up on the top of the vanity. He cupped his chin. His eyes narrowed as he peered at his reflection in the convexed glass vase of fresh lilies left as a gift by a man in the bar. His gaze danced along his slightly distorted features; his full, pouted lips, his deep amber eyes. The cheekbones that seemed almost razor sharp, and the prominent jaw devoid of any stubble. Smooth—just as the customers liked him.   
A tall, slender figure appeared behind him in the dimmed light. Brendon’s gaze shifted, and he caught sight of a navy suit-jacket, a black fedora clutched to a broad chest. He didn’t need to shift his eyes upward to be able to know who had approached him. 

“Hey, Dall,” Brendon greeted, his eyes dropping to the vanity before him. His gaze found a pear shaped bottle of perfume and he reached forward to grasp it between his fingers. He smoothed his fingertips over the ridges implanted into the glass. He picked at the label with his thumb absently as he felt a hand lay gently on his shoulder. His eyes flicked quickly to the left and caught sight of Dallon’s rings, the large golden ones he’d said had been passed down to him from his father. Brendon pressed his cheek to the top of that hand. 

“Hey, sugar.” Dallon greeted with a gentle smile. Brendon felt his skin prickle. “Where’ve you been?” 

Brendon’s eyes moved back down to the vanity, where he watched his own fingers flex, examining his knuckles and what they might’ve looked like if he were fortunate enough to have golden rings planted proudly upon each of them. “I went boozin’ down at Sam’s.’S my night off. I deserved it.” He swivelled in his seat, minding the creak the old wood gave beneath his weight. When he settled, he looked up and captured Dallon’s piercing blue gaze. His stomach lurched. 

“Sure did.” Dallon replied with a grin. He swiped his tongue over his teeth, then clicked his tongue and set his fedora on the vanity. Brendon’s vanity. The younger boy scowled at the action briefly, but turned his attention elsewhere. He knew better than to rag on Dallon. 

“Where were you?” Brendon inquired.

Dallon chewed on his lip. Brendon watched how Dallon’s mouth twisted while he nibbled on the thin skin. He wondered why he did it—whether it was by nerves, or if he enjoyed the metallic taste of blood oozing on his tongue when he bit a little too hard. “I’s finishin’ my shift upstairs. You talked to Shane yet today?”

Brendon shook his head. _Thank God_ , he thought. _Every day I don’t have to consort with a snake like him is a blessing._ “Nah. Why? ‘S he cuttin’ my hours or somethin’?” 

Dallon scoffed, then turned to spit into the trash bin set aside the vanity. “ _Cuttin_ ’ them?” He asked incredulously. “Honey, he’s _uppin_ ’ them if an’thing.” He dipped his hand into his pocket to fish out a pack of Camels. He popped the flap of cardboard and pulled one from the row nearest the front of the package and tossed it into his mouth, as if it were a kernel of popped corn. He brought his palm up and cupped the flame from the match, shaking it away once the end of the white stick burned orange. Brendon watched with narrowed eyes. It was something he’d seen Dallon do before countless times. He had memorized such moments in their history together.

He would lie down on the couch; nude body wrapped loosely in a crisp, white sheet and watch the older man toss his smoke into his mouth while hunched over on the discoloured rug, back pressed against the couch. 

He’d seen him do it as he slipped back into his crisp white shirt and fancy suit jacket. 

He’d watched him do it as he left—he always left. 

Watching Dallon smoke had become something methodic. Routine. He’d spit, then pull the pack from the folds of either denim or polyester, toss it in the air, deftly grab it between his lips before it had a chance to fall. Brendon realized now, as he watched him do it for the thousandth time, that he hated it. Not because he couldn’t stand the smell of tobacco, but because when Dallon smoked it only meant that he was stressed. 

And that meant that Brendon ended up with the brunt of it.

Brendon’s dark eyes widened. Dallon merely flicked his gaze up to the poster hung on the wall—an advert for the cabaret that had been posted around the city in the club’s earliest years. He brought the cigarette to his lips and sucked, his exhale being the only sound that untucked the blanket of silence that had fallen over them. Brendon winced. 

“You’s jokin’.” Brendon denied, pushing his fingers through his dark hair. He had to be joking. His blood had run cold.

Dallon flicked the ash off of the end of his cigarette. Brendon watched it flitter through the air until it fell to the floor, narrowly missing the edge of the trashcan. Dallon shook his head. “Nah. He’s talkin’ about ‘business opportunities’ and whatnot. I say the guy’s a loon. He’s sure got his mind made, though.” He explained, extending his hand to flick the ash into the ashtray properly this time. 

“What the hell do you mean by ‘business opportunities’, Dall? C’mon, don’ be pansyin’ around this. Give it to me straight.” 

Dallon’s head turned, eyes widening at the sudden boldness.. 

Brendon sunk back into the chair some. It was rare that he talked back like that. He had learned to keep his jaw wired shut after a series of unfortunate altercations in which he’d ended up with a bruised cheek and loosened tooth 

“He’s askin’ you dancers t’start sleepin’ with the customers.” 

Brendon didn’t register the words at first. For the beginning few moments of the silence between them, Brendon didn’t move. He didn’t blink, breathe, or even think in those moments. When the weight of those words finally began to seep into his bones, into his shaky stream of consciousness, he felt his hands begin to tremble. His throat was tightening and curiously, his eyes were stinging with impending tears. “No.” He breathed. 

“Yeah. Tol’ me this evenin’.” Dallon said evenly. Sucking on the smoke one last time, he flicked the ash away and tossed the butt into the trash. He lifted a hand and placed it where it’d been before upon Brendon’s shoulder. “Don’ worry about it, tootse—“

“Don’t touch me.”

Dallon’s eyes widened. “Wha’s your problem, sugar? C’mon, don’t be like this.” Dallon cooed, dropping his hand. He waited a moment, then reached out to touch him once again.  
Brendon had seen this all before, of course. That was the thing about Dallon Weekes—he was a sweetheart on the surface, but pure malevolence beneath the facade. He was the type of man that could manipulate you into doing whatever he wanted you to do with a simple suave smile, a gentle gaze.

Brendon scooted back, perhaps a little too violent, and felt his back crack when it collided with the wooden edge of the vanity. A few bottles toppled over and clattered against one another. 

Dallon’s shoulders rose, his nostrils flared.   
“I said don’t touch me—“ Brendon snarled, but was soon cut off by the sobering sting of a hand slapping the softness of his cheek. For a split second, Brendon’s mind was blank, vision blurred. His eyes slowly opened, the fuzzy carpet coming back into his line of vision. He felt wetness on his upper lip. Was that a tear? _God, don’t let that be a tear. Do not show him weakness_. 

Brendon’s knuckles were white as they gripped the chair to keep himself from falling to the floor. It wasn’t easy, however. He felt hazy, and addled with pain. His vision had cleared, and he watched a single crimson droplet fall from his face, spattering on the cement. With the sight of blood, Brendon felt something boiling inside him. Something rebellious and dangerous. This was the last time. 

He stood, the chair shooting forward and knocking into Dallon’s pelvis. The man keeled over, only briefly before his head snapped up, eyes wild. _Fearsome_. He grabbed the chair’s back, throwing it aside with a single arm. Brendon heard the wood splinter when it hit the wall, but he didn’t look. His eyes were focused solely on Dallon. 

Dallon lunged for him, but Brendon skittered to the side. The elder man grabbed at suddenly empty air. When Dallon’s meaty hands met with the vanity, a few bottles rolled to the edge and fell to the floor, shattering. The sound of broken glass crunched beneath Dallon’s boot as he turned on Brendon once again. 

He tried to dash away once more, but this time, his feet could not carry him as fast as he willed them to and Dallon’s hand thrust out and gripped his bicep roughly. Brendon winced as fingertips dug viciously into the muscle. “Who d’you think you is, hmm? Talkin’ t’me like you’s the Queen of fuckin’ Sheba.” Dallon hissed as he jerked Brendon’s arm, bringing him closer. Brendon’s heart was in his throat, his skin burning with the knowledge that this just might be the night that that unruly mouth of his landed him in a big oak box. But knowing Shane and his stringiness with money, Brendon would be tied to a cinderblock and tossed over the Golden Gate. 

“I ain’t livin’ with it no more, Dallon.” Brendon yelped, trying to wrangle his arm free. Dallon yanked harder and shoved his slender frame, sending him into the wall. Brendon’s head snapped backwards, and smacked the cement, but he didn’t whine. _Be strong_ , he told himself. _He won’t do nothin’_. 

“Ain’t livin’ with what?” Dallon snapped, his face close to Brendon’s as he braced his forearm against his chest. Brendon’s breath came in short, ragged gasps as panic set in. Still, his eyes remained steely with defiance. 

“ _This_ ,” he hissed. “You ain’t gonna lay a hand on me no more.” 

Dallon’s lips twisted into an unsettling smirk. Brendon’s skin was crawling. “And just what’cha gonna do out there in the big bad world without me, huh?”

“’M gonna live without bruises, that’s for damn sure.” Brendon barked, the waves of defiant anger burning through him like a raging fire. It coursed through his veins and set his heart ablaze. A satisfied smirk bloomed on his lips. “I’m leavin’ this hole. ‘N I’m sure as hell leavin’ you too.” 

There was weight on his throat now. His windpipe tightened under pressure. Everything burned, but Dallon’s hand felt like ice as it closed like a vise around Brendon’s throat. Tighter. _Tighter._

Brendon fought back instinctively. He clawed desperately at Dallon’s hand but the older man’s grip was unyielding. Dark spots dotted Brendon’s vision, lips parted as he futilely attempted to fill his burning lungs. He was weakening.

Dallon forced Brendon’s jaw upwards, forcing the younger’s gaze to fix on the ceiling. Brendon had stared at this roof a thousand times while Dallon had his way with him in the sweaty evenings that followed his shift upstairs. But damn, did it ever look different with the red stars exploding over his eyes. With the possibility that it may be the last sight his eyes ever captured. 

“You ungrateful tramp,” Dallon hissed. He clamped harder onto Brendon’s throat. Brendon suppressed a cough. He felt his cheeks burning red, his eyes bulging. “You’s nothin’ without me. I gotcha this job when you’s just a scrappy teenager. Now you wanna leave? Why? Because the big boss man wants you to spread your legs? You ain’t never had an issue with doin’ that before. You’s nothin’ but a money-whore. Ain’t nobody outside these walls that’ll hire your ass. I’ll make sure of that. But I don’t gotta worry much ’bout you leavin’, do I? Cause you know, Brendon. You know that if you do, I’ll find ya. Think you’s a sneaky little runt? I got eyes in this city. Believe me, boy, I’ll find ya. And when I do? Boy, you better be fuckin’ scared.” 

Dallon released him, giving him a hard shove back into the wall. Brendon’s throat was raw when he sucked in a breath, collapsing to the ground. Immediately, he was coughing, gasping for air. The floor was cool against his skin, and he found solace in the sensation of the cement, of the rough surface of the rug beneath his fingertips. His fingers splayed out, touching everything, memorizing sensations. He had been so close, so close.  
He looked up, eyes red and watered. He didn’t dare speak. His eyes moved down, and caught sight of Dallon’s foot, extended backwards. He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for impact, fists winding around the frayed edges of the rug. 

“Weekes!” A familiar voice bellowed from beyond Dallon. Brendon’s eyes snapped open to the bartender—Andrew. Andrew, or Andy as he was known by most everyone in the club was a beefed up man with tattoos that lined each of his arms, both of his legs and much of his torso. Thank God he showed up, because everyone, even Dallon the bouncer was afraid of Andy. “How many times do you gotta be told?” Andy barked, closing in on Dallon. Dallon’s foot lowered and in several strides, Andy’s fist was clenched around the collar of Dallon’s shirt, and dragged him away from Brendon’s collapsed frame, shoving him into the wall beside him.   
“Whoa, man, take it easy—” Dallon spluttered, his fingers gripping Andy’s thick wrist in an attempt to push him off. 

Andy’s eyes narrowed. “Take it _easy_? I walk in on you beatin’ the living hell out of Brendon, and you expect me to take it easy? If I ever see you lay a hand on him again, I swear, Dallon, I will castrate you with my bare hands.” 

Brendon heaved for breath on the floor and rolled onto his back, his eyes finally closing. The cool cement felt indescribable on his aching shoulders. He could hear some shuffling, a little grunting. Then, a body hit the floor with a reverberating thud. “Get your scrawny ass out of here, Weekes.” Andy barked. 

When Brendon was finally able to muster the strength to roll his head to the side and open his eyes, he watched Dallon pick himself up off the floor and gather his things.  
Brendon’s chest heaved with a sigh of relief when Dallon left. He hadn’t registered it until then, but Andy had picked him up off the floor and carried him to the couch. His breath stuttered as he drew in another unstable breath. His lungs still burned. 

“Why is it always me?” 

Andy was hunched over as he swept the broken glass from the broken perfume bottle onto a sheet of paper to dispose of. There was silence between them for a moment.   
“I dunno, Bren. I don’t,” Andy finally said. “but sooner or later, he’ll learn. Don’t know when, Don’ know how.”

As Brendon extended his legs and eased himself out, he looked up at his friend. Despite himself, he managed a smile. Andy cocked an eyebrow and motioned to the space on the couch unoccupied by Brendon’s legs. Brendon gave a short nod and shifted. Tears burned on the brims of his eyelids. “What’s wrong with me?” Brendon asked, averting his gaze. He looked back to his hands folded in his lap and shut his eyes, a single tear rolling over the swell of his cheek. 

“Bren,” Andy cooed. He planted a comforting hand on Brendon’s ankle. Brendon felt his calloused fingertips massage gentle circles into the skin. “There ain’t nothin’ wrong with you.” 

“Then why does he do this?” Brendon sobbed. 

“I can’t—“

“I ain’t his property. He’s been treatin’ me like this for years, Andy. I can’t do it no more.” 

Andy remained silent. 

There was something unspoken that hung between them in those quiet moments. The both of them knew that this was how it had been since Brendon was seventeen. He’d been a threadbare teenage runaway when Dallon found him on the side of the road just outside of San Francisco. Brendon remembered his charm most of all. How he drove up to the curb in his sleek, blue Talbot and flashed his impeccably white teeth. He remembered how as he slid into the passenger seat that Dallon had actually made him laugh. 

Mama had always been steadfast in the belief that God helped those who needed it. Brendon scoffed at that notion then, and he sure as hell scoffed at it now. If there was some almighty God sitting on his throne in the sky, then why the hell had he dealt Brendon the losing hand? Was this is plan for him? Abuse and prostitution? _No_ , Brendon thought. _If there’s a god, he’s dead in heaven._


End file.
